


My Heart for Yours

by orphan_account



Series: John's Muse, Sherlock's Angel [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Anal Sex, Devil!Moriarty, Gay Sex, John/Mycroft friendship, M/M, Muse!Sherlock, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Painplay, Reaper!Mary, References to Suicide, angel!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 04:12:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being an Angel has never been an easy occupation, especially not when Sherlock Holmes is your charge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Heart for Yours

The men in his unit always called John an Angel. John always attributed it to delusion caused by pain killers or by the immense pain itself, since they always spoke of his immense gold wings. Angels likely didn’t have wings, he didn’t think, because everyone would know who the Angels were if Angel wings were real. Even if they were real, John highly doubted he was an Angel. He hardly had the behavioural conduct of one, and frankly he wasn’t even sure if they existed.

And John continued to doubt the existence of Angels when he was shot and nearly killed; when his parents died, and there was nothing he could do to help; when Harry’s addiction worsened and the intervention did nothing. He doubted until he met Mycroft Holmes.

When he’d been invalided back to England he’d had an overwhelming bitterness that caused him to fiddle with his (admittedly illegal) gun. He hadn’t planned on leaving the army, and now he was devoid of a purpose. He might as well pull the trigger, as far as he was concerned. And then he met Sherlock, which led him to Mycroft.

John didn’t particularly like Mycroft, and Mycroft didn’t even come close to fitting John’s idea of an Angel. But he was, nonetheless; wore the badge and everything. Mycroft was, in fact, Head of the Angels, not that Sherlock had any idea. John was confused, at first, as to why Mycroft was assigning John to Sherlock when Mycroft was Sherlock’s big brother and should know best how to protect him. Then John saw the gentleness when Mycroft was reminded of Lestrade; he was worshipping the Detective Inspector from afar. John suspected Lestrade would never know he was in the charge of an Angel or who said Angel was, but it really was never any of John’s business. Sherlock was John’s business.

So John chased after Sherlock no matter where he went, taking Mycroft’s assignment not only seriously but physically: keep Sherlock safe, at all cost. It kept John from the various relationships he tried to form, but as he was constantly reminded his job on Earth was not to form meaningful attachments to anybody other than Sherlock. He was, in essence, doomed.

When he shot the cabbie, he expected a terrible talking-to from Mycroft about inappropriate behaviour. Killing was, after all, a sin, not to mention against the Hippocratic Oath John took as a doctor. When that didn’t come, John could still feel himself pushing the limits, testing how much he could get away with this new and invisible authority. (He still finds himself surprised that Lestrade has never figured out it was he who shot the cabbie that first night. Lestrade got the most wonderfully befuddled look whenever someone broached the subject as they were prone to every now and then. It seemed as though the entirety of the event had been deleted from Lestrade’s memory.)

When he left Sherlock for a job and a date and Sherlock nearly died, John felt as though he were the one who’d nearly died. John tried to keep watch over him but it was simply too difficult. Sherlock pushed John away with every given chance, and although Mycroft had warned John he still fell for it and left. That was the night Moriarty exploded their flat. The paperwork John was sent to do with Mycroft was quite the punishment. John would have preferred flogging or yelling to the dull words and paper-cuts. John thought, now that the case with Moriarty was over, he’d be fine to leave Sherlock to grab dinner. He certainly didn’t expect himself to be a target for kidnapping.

Moriarty’s touches felt like unsanitary needles scraping his skin, leaving scars everywhere he touched John’s bare skin. There was no preparation, but still John knew what Moriarty was aiming for, scraping his nails down John’s back and overwhelming him with the stench of blood and steel. And it burned. Horribly. John screamed and, for the first time since he was a child (including the time he was shot), cried. There was the constant jabbing as Moriarty overwhelmed him, trying to fill John with the same saturating hatred Moriarty felt. Moriarty’s cries echoed in his head with a throb. _Kill Sherlock Holmes, kill Sherlock Holmes_. John sobbed as Moriarty came, screeched on a level no human could hear as Moriarty stepped away, jerking John up by his hair, and shoving him out.

Sherlock looked so hurt and betrayed in those few seconds, uttering John’s name with the thought that John was Moriarty, that John betrayed him. Those few seconds of utmost fear hurt more than Moriarty’s rape.

Even when the whole ordeal at the pool was over, John didn’t feel clean. As Lestrade ushered the two to the hospital and forced them to submit to a checking over, Mycroft went to speak to John. John was expecting Mycroft to lash out, to hit him, to separate him from Sherlock, and John whimpered at the thought when Mycroft laid a hand on John’s shoulder.

‘You did what you could,’ was what Mycroft said instead, and pushed the feeble hospital gown aside (later they would tell Sherlock that Moriarty beat John and that the hospital tending to his wounds was what kept John separated from Sherlock for so long) and laid his hands on the burning marks down John’s skin.

John sighed from the cool relief. ‘Ta, bless you. How d’you do that?’

Mycroft merely shook his head and helped John dress. They never spoke of it again.

John resolved to keep a better watch over Sherlock this time, only protesting feebly at the thought of ditching another girlfriend for taking care of Sherlock (he was a recovering drug addict, after all, and if she didn’t respect the importance of keeping an ex-addict from having a relapse, then she really shouldn’t be dating an Angel, he supposed) and only left the flat when he knew Sherlock was in the care of Mrs Hudson.

But time and time again, Sherlock got hurt. Most of the time it was emotional rather than physical (people yelling at him, calling him a freak, framing him for murders). John finally asked Mycroft, face-to-face, why he allowed John to continue watching over Sherlock

‘Because he has become rather attached to you.’

There was a pause as John interpreted what that meant. ‘So he…asked for me? To stay?’

Mycroft sighed. ‘My brother’s safety and happiness are first and foremost in my relationship with him. I told him that if you two were fighting and he wanted you to leave, I could make you. He all but begged me not to say anything to you.’

John went back to St Bart’s with a new confidence in the strength of his and Sherlock’s connection; and again, John left, and left angry with Sherlock. By the time he made it back to Sherlock, it was too late.

When Sherlock jumped off the roof of St Bart’s he forcibly broke their bond. John had never felt so wretched in his life, like the very essence that made John alive was being ripped from his physical form.

‘It isn’t your fault, you know, John.’

‘No, it’s yours.’ Mycroft’s lips thinned. John expected the removal of his duties and the pain of being cast out. It never came.

‘You taught a heartless man to love, John. There is no greater feat than what you have accomplished with Sherlock.’ John stood and let tears fall down silently, his shoulders shaking softly.

‘I cast myself out,’ he whispered.

And John disappeared into the walls, into the pavement. No one could see him, not that anybody looked. He didn’t change clothes, only ripped them off once when the pain of living was so much that he couldn’t stand it and began to scratch at every inch of skin he could reach, trying to scrub off the memories of Moriarty’s sick caresses, Mycroft’s healing of John’s wounds, every surprise hug from Mrs Hudson, even scratching his eyes for every tender look Sherlock graced him with.

In the end he laid naked and bloody in the shower of 221B, the life force draining out of him. He heard the soft clacking of heels on the wood of the hallway.

This was when John met Mary.

‘Have you come to take me away?’ he asked, Cheshire-cat grin.

Mary kneeled on the ground, hovering above John. She blinked slowly. ‘No, John Hamish Watson, I have come to save you.’

Mary’s shadow, which had been wound around her body to form a cloak, had now spread out, purifying John’s body and clearing the dust from the flat as it went.

There was no substance to their relationship. Mary tore over his body, devouring him. Now that John had relinquished whatever little power he had (and what need had he to keep it? Sherlock wasn’t around, there was no one to keep safe, no purpose to living), he let her. He wasn’t consenting, but he wasn’t pushing her away. She asked him for love, he said yes, and somehow she maneuvered him into becoming her pet. He could feel the coils of her being around his neck when they walked, and around his wrist as he slept. Her ‘love’ was draining the life out of him and he was little more than a body without a soul when Sherlock returned.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Today was the anniversary of _The Reichenbach Fall_ , as John had titled it in his blog. Sherlock smirked over his shoulder as he wrote, casually murmuring ‘Do you really think I don’t know Mycroft is paying you for that blog?’

John hummed, but didn’t say anything. Sherlock kissed his neck softly, over a bruise John had gained from the case they had finished earlier in the day.  Sherlock nuzzled into the crook of his neck.  ‘Come on, let’s go to bed. I’m tired – been tired a lot recently.’ John grumbled and shrugged Sherlock off.

‘Oh, come on, John. You’re not still mad at me for that little…tumble earlier, are you?’

‘I’m not mad, I’m just…’ John sighed, letting his head fall into his hands. ‘No, actually,’ John stood up, hands fisting. ‘I am mad at you. Do you even realize what day it is?’

Sherlock’s eyes lowered. ‘John, I thought we were past this –‘

‘Past this?’ John could feel himself getting hysterical, but he couldn’t stop it. ‘Sherlock, we never even tried to get around this –‘ John gestured in mad circles, fingers pointing down at his feet and the space between himself and Sherlock. ‘Let alone _through_ it. So no, Sherlock, we are not past this. I’m still angry. I’m sorry, but I’m still mad at you.’

Sherlock sighed dramatically. ‘John, this is ridiculous –‘

‘What,’ John snapped, ‘is ridiculous about my feelings, Sherlock?’

Sherlock swallowed. ‘You know, John, that I had to do this. I had to do this to save you and Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade.’

‘I don’t give a fuck’ Sherlock flinched, ‘if you did it to save the royal family. You hurt me, Sherlock, I met Mary because I tried to kill myself when you left. And then I found out you were just faking it. Why couldn’t you trust me, Sherlock?’

‘I trusted you, John, I just didn’t trust them. Why can’t you _see_?’

John growled and made his way to Sherlock’s – now their – bedroom. Sherlock followed. Upon reaching the doorway, John turned on his heels to face Sherlock. Sherlock stumbled and fell back into the wall. ‘Why can’t you just apologize?’

‘Apologize?’ Sherlock sounded scandalized. ‘Apologize? For saving your life?’ Sherlock stood straight again and tried to act domineering, using his greater height to try and take control of the situation. ‘You should be _thanking_ me, John.’

John slapped him and turned away, walking fully into the bedroom before turning around again, staying put in a military stance. Sherlock had a hand on his cheek, dazed. John wanted to feel sorry, but at the moment he simply couldn’t. ‘I am your guardian angel.’ He tilted his chin up, managing to look down at Sherlock despite the height difference. ‘I am meant to guard and protect you. I have no purpose in life without you, and I don’t get any option in that, Sherlock. I knew that this was going to be a lonely existence, but you didn’t have to go and make it a _heart-breaking_ one’ he snarled.

Sherlock fell to his knees in front of John, and cradling the backs of John’s knees in the palms of his hands enveloped John into an intimate hug. John lowered himself to be on level with Sherlock, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders. ‘I had no idea,’ Sherlock confessed ‘that when I met you, that you would be a muse for me. I had no way of knowing that you would care so much. When I left, I thought…’ Sherlock sighed and lowered his head, his right ear resting over John’s heart. ‘I thought that surely, you would move on. Any thoughts of…affection you would have for me would be lost, you could live your life as you wished.’

John let his chin sit on top of Sherlock’s head, as Sherlock brushed kisses against his chest. ‘You were doing that on purpose. Making me angry. Pushing me away.’

‘You don’t have a choice in your life. I couldn’t bear it if you were only here because you had to be, if you were staying because Mycroft made you –‘

John slapped Sherlock again, although more affectionately this time. He made to apologize when Sherlock let out a low moan, placing an open-mouthed kiss on John’s nipple. Everything became a jumbled mess. ‘I’m so- Mycroft didn’t – you twit, I stayed because I wanted to. I’m –‘

‘Don’t apologize, John,’ soft hands kneading John’s shoulders, wetted lips licking at his Adam’s apple. ‘Hit me again, John.’

John put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and pushed him away, looking at his eyes. Sherlock’s pupils had expanded, both in diameter and circumference, forming a perfect circle blocking out the ever-changing pigments in his eyes, trademark of a Muse. But nonetheless… ‘Did I hit you too hard, Sherlock? I’m not going to hit you, I shouldn’t have hit you in the first place –‘

‘No, John,’ Sherlock said. ‘Hit me again.’ John blinked. ‘We’re neither of us good at talking when we’re intimate, and this is an intimate matter – my faked death, your intended one – so hit me. Express it physically. Pummel it into me. I’m a Muse, John,’ Sherlock took one of John’s hands and placed it over his own heart, beating in 8/4 time. ‘I learn, I understand best by doing, by feeling. Make me feel it, John. Show me what you need to say, what I need to understand.’

The beating of Sherlock’s heart was all John needed to know. He took a deep breath, and slapped Sherlock across the face again.

Sherlock fell back onto the floor, legs splayed and erection prominent. ‘That’s for the first night, for leaving me at that crime scene.’

He slapped Sherlock’s left calf. ‘And that’s for almost taking the sodding suicide pill, you wanker.’

He slapped Sherlock’s dick through his trousers and Sherlock arched up, now leaking pre-cum. ‘That’s for interrupting my date, for breaking into places without me –‘ and he kissed the spot on Sherlock’s trousers where the pre-cum had begun to leak through. ‘And me apologizing, for telling Sebastian I was your colleague as opposed to your friend.’

Sherlock sighed, arms stretching out above his head. John frowned and smacked his pelvis. ‘That’s for shooting holes in the wall,’ now on other side, ‘and that’s for saying you don’t care about people.’

He gave Sherlock a straight punch to his stomach. Sherlock coughed and choked a little, rolling onto his side for a moment. ‘That’s for _ever_ thinking I was Moriarty, for _ever_ doubting me. Shame on you, Sherlock.’

Sherlock moaned again, getting louder as John dug his nails into Sherlock’s sides, dragging his trousers and pants down in one smooth move, jerking the socks and shoes off as well. He could see how in some places, the drag of his nails has drawn blood. He was sure nice bruises would be there by morning time. He rolled Sherlock onto his side and spanked him hard on the arse, cause him to fall to his stomach. Sherlock gasped, hands fisting the carpet and John roughly yanked the jacket off of his arms.

‘That is for that whole business with Irene, Sherlock.’ Sherlock moaned again, face turned to the side so he could breathe. ‘Oh, and you knew. You knew how jealous I was and you paid more attention to her just to make me angrier. You should know better, Sherlock.’

‘And this,’ he tore Sherlock’s shirt apart, again dragging his nails down his arms and drawing blood (not that Sherlock seemed to be minding any of it). ‘This is for Baskerville, for saying I wasn’t your friend, for drugging me –‘ John used both hands to slap Sherlock’s arse – ‘And especially for that fake apology. I thought I meant more to you than that, Sherlock.’

‘You do, John,’ he panted. ‘You do.’

John clamped a hand over Sherlock’s mouth. ‘Stay quiet, Sherlock. I didn’t say you could talk.’ He pinched Sherlock’s nose slightly before deciding against it. The level was supposed to imitate John’s anger, and John certainly wasn’t a strangler. Instead, he stuck his fingers in Sherlock’s mouth and hissed, ‘ _Suck_.’

Sherlock obliged, and John felt his cock lengthening, hardening, pulling up. He began to undo his clothes with his free hand, kicking his shoes and socks off with his feet and managing to pull everything but half of his shirt off. He pulled his fingers away and heard Sherlock gasp. He shoved the three soaked finger straight into Sherlock’s arse, and punctuated each word with a thrust, ignoring the groans from Sherlock. ‘This – is – for – jumping – off – the – roof – and – making – me – watch.’

Sherlock howled into the carpet, bucking back into John’s fingers as he removed them, pressing his cock in, thrusting it all the way in slowly. John smoothed his hands possessively down Sherlock’s back, watching as the wounds began to fade. ‘Muse, my Muse,’ he whispered. He kissed the space in between Sherlock shoulder blades, licking softly as he pulled out and thrust harshly back in.

Sherlock moaned at the initially slow pace as John situated himself. Sherlock reached a hand down between his legs, grabbing anxiously for his own cock, when John jerked his hand away. Sherlock could feel new bruises forming on his wrist. ‘No, Sherlock,’ he growled, and things returned to their original violent, for lack of a better word, pace. John kept his hands on Sherlock’s arms, pinning them to the ground while Sherlock shouted beneath him, half pleasured and half pained. Sherlock’s arse was in the air so that he could better reach John’s cock as John knelt above him.

John let go of Sherlock’s right hand for a moment to slam Sherlock, arse first, back to the ground. Sherlock let out another howling moan as his prick, still painfully erect and leaking generously, slammed into the ground. He lifted up again, hand snaking down, to check himself. John slapped his hand away. ‘Don’t you listen to anything I say?’

‘Yes, John,’ Sherlock breathed, eyes fluttering. ‘Everything you say, John.’

John held Sherlock’s hips down with both of his hands and re-inserted his prick abruptly, fucking Sherlock’s hole mercilessly, quickly drawing out and shoving himself back in. And now that Sherlock’s hips were no longer moving, John managed to slam his prostate with every snapping thrust. He could hear his balls slamming against Sherlock’s arse, could feel pre-cum leaking into Sherlock, coating Sherlock’s prostate with ever touch of his cock’s head. He felt some feral rumbling inside him, attempting to claw its way through John; but instead of the fear Mary invoked in him or the hatred from Moriarty, this was something powerful, something fierce like freedom.

John spread Sherlock’s cheeks and thighs apart farther and leaned toward Sherlock’s ear.

‘I’m gonna make you fuck the carpet,’ he whispered. ‘I’m gonna fuck you into it, through it, so your dick comes out the other side and you can never touch it again, never. Not until you learn your lesson, to listen to me, to do as I say. Not until you learn that you are _mine_ , Sherlock Holmes. You bound me to you with your songs, with every song you wrote for me. But you bound yourself in the process, Sherlock. We are bound together.

And I don’t want you to cum unless you’re cumming for me. That’s why I don’t want you to touch yourself, Sherlock. Shoved face-first into the carpet, getting branded, getting owned by me. I want to know I’m the one making you cum, not your hands or mine or even silk fucking pants.  When you cum, I want it to be because I _made_ you cum.’

‘ _Jooohhnnn!_ ’ Sherlock’s cry sounded most like singing as his cock shot semen in all directions, smattering his balls and pelvis, pubic hair and stomach, and soaking mostly into the carpet. ‘God, John – fuck, oh fuck, John!’ He cried as his penis continued to convulse, his hips incapable of moving in time with the spurts. ‘Oh, God, John,’ he tried to groan but was breathless. ‘John, _god,_ John, I – fucking – love you, John Watson.’

Sherlock hardly ever swore, so if nothing else the insistence of fucking would have pushed John over the edge; but, sentimental as he was, it was the confession of love that did it. John fucked into Sherlock three more time before his own cock started to pulse inside Sherlock’s body, shooting semen as far as it would go inside his partner. Sherlock shuddered from the feel of it and the connection of his body with John’s, disconnecting as John slid out, penis still dripping slightly.

John heaved a sigh before falling to his side, playing with Sherlock’s hair until Sherlock turned to face him, smile on his sated face.

‘That was brilliant, John,’ He took John’s hand in his own and kissed the palm, tonguing it. Not sexual in nature, but intimate all the same. ‘And yes, I did mean it.’ He brought John’s hand to caressing his face, smelling John’s scent in his hand. ‘When I said I loved you.’ Sherlock’s eyes were back to normal (for now) and stared intently into John’s. ‘You should know that, now. How much I am deeply in love with you. I thought it was obvious.’

John shook his head and buried his nose in Sherlock’s neck, inhaling the scent of their sex and Sherlock’s natural pheromones, his shampoo and his deodorant. ‘Quite bloody obvious with me, though; how much I am deeply in love with you back.’

They didn’t speak much for the rest of the night, but made love once more before falling asleep. Sherlock’s legs were tossed lazily over John’s shoulders, hands caressing John’s face as John thrust until Sherlock was ready to cum again, and retreating to suck Sherlock’s length into his mouth, swallowing down all of his seed as Sherlock threw his head back, doing his odd singing-scream again.

‘You didn’t have to do that,’ he whispered, stroking John to orgasm now. John shuddered as he came over Sherlock’s hand, kissing Sherlock’s shoulder. ‘You don’t need to make up for the violence or anything, I think we both got what we needed out of that.’

‘You mean a better understand of each other?’

Sherlock smirked. ‘Among other things.’

There was a slight pause as they revelled in breathing each other’s air. ‘I didn’t have to, no, but I swallowed because I wanted to. Fair exchange, you know. You took what I had to offer, and now I take what you have.

Sherlock’s eyes were wide open and stared back into John’s, similarly wide. ‘My heart for yours,’ he mused, clasping their hands together as their breaths evened out.


End file.
